The 25th Hunger Games: Serica's Sacrifice
by Snooptastic
Summary: Admired. Adored. Respected. Sweet Serica Mitosis always was appreciated for being a helpful person of the higher class. So, in a year where tributes are voted to enter the arena, how did Serica end up being the person with everything to lose?


_**Heyo! So this is my first hunger games fanfiction. My updates will be longer than this (it's a prolouge), and it will be approx. 24 chapters long. Thankfully, summer is very near, so I will try to update bi-weekly starting next Sunday night.**_

_**Until then please sit back, relax, enjoy some goldfish an denjoy this fanfic!**_

_**Without further ado, I present Serica Mitosis , a fourteen year-old girl living in District Eight, and her sacrifice for the 25**__**th**__** Hunger Games.**_

Chapter 1: Untouchable

I had a nightmare last night.

It was strange. Dark shadows were dancing and flickering through my mind. And soft turquoise, my favorite color, was intermingled.

Unnerved, I cautiously run my fingers against my bedcovers, anxious to brush off uneasy thoughts.

"Serica, it's time for breakfast!"

my Mother's bright voice chirps.

In those five words, she has summarized the status of the Mitosis family of District Eight. We eat meals in the morning. Only the high society can afford this luxury.

Entranced by my terrible dream, I meander down the stairs.

My mother smiles, but in a hard way, her eyes twitching at the sight of me still in my nightclothes.

I flush a deep red, scampering back up the stairs to change.

The curtains to my window have fluttered open, light as feathers, revealing a sight that leaves me so awestruck it stops me in my tracks.

The deep indigo night sky has softened to my most favorite shade of pale turquoise, the sun kissing the misty gray horizon like glittering gold bead.

The sight transfixes me, so that I have to yank myself away from the window to absentmindedly pull on a soft purple dress. My fingers dance across it, as they always do with a beautiful fabric, forcing my mind to concentrate on my outfit.

I am the daughter of one of the few Fashion Designers for the Capitol that live in district eight. In fact, as of 2 years ago, THE only.

But I look put together indeed. The light dress has thin straps that lay elegantly over my shoulders, and the fabric falls at a wispy hemline to my knees. My hair, after a quick yet careful combing, appears to be as golden and glimmering as the sun. My eyes glow the pale turquoise my window reveals. Satisfied I store enough of the morning sky in my mind as well as my appearance, I gently shut the window and draw the curtains before moving to the dining room, gracefully this time.

My mother shoots me an approving nod at my second attempt at proper manners, before refocusing her sharp gaze to Lacey and Lancely, my spritely red-headed twin siblings nearly 6 years younger than my more mature age of 14.

I sit up properly at my seat, crisply folding my napkin in my lap. Making sure Mother's head is turned, I drop two pieces of bread and an apple into the white cloth. Quietly, I retreat to the kitchen, where I empty the food into a small basket. Slipping my feet into my hideous but durable rubber sandals, I stealthily creep out the door.

Once I make sure not so much a crack of the door is open after I exit, I sigh loudly.

My Mother may just be one of the most horrible people in the district. We are high-society, but she views helping anyone else as a threat to that.

She wouldn't even let Pailletea stay with us, even after both her mother and her father passed.

Walking along the roads of District Eight, I make an abrupt turn near a grocery into a dark alley.

There, a figure sits, hunched over. Her skin is leathery and dark from months of rain and sun with little shelter. Her hair is dark, so dark it seems that if it was clean, it could be mistaken for night. The only thing that appears decent about her are her eyes, as deep, dark, and richly green as emeralds.

They turn towards me, and her pasty lips turn upward with far too much effort.

My heart pangs. My best friend has been reduced to this.

I hand her the food, which she chews slowly.

My mother and Pailletea's mother were both well-known designers, our Father's recognized as great mechanics, inventing machines and revolutionary looms.

Both of our Fathers were killed in an accident at their workshop. The machines had somehow gotten ahold of their heads. There was no getting them out alive.

My mother grew harder. Colder. It seemed she loved her children less, only cared about them being proper and living up to a certain image she treasured. We certainly had enough money, but half as much as before, and even though we still lived extravagantly, my mother was stingy to anyone besides us who begged for money.

Pailletea's mother simply couldn't cope. They found her body in our neighborhood well two days after she went missing and one week after the fathers' deaths.

We all had thought the water tasted funny.

So my mother drew me closer and shut Pailletea, the daughter of her best friend, out.

Our neighborhood Nedlleton, consisting of roughly 20 families out of District Eight's 5,000, considered her a menace. A stain on their magnificent embroidered evening gown.

They are all so ignorant. They never quite noticed that if Pailletea ever received the opportunity to show them her talent...

She would run every beading business out of District Eight.

The most infuriating thing was, I couldn't very well use her talent as bargaining power ask my mother to take her in. "Please mother, please give shelter to the girl who could drive you out on the streets,".

Pailletea's body would be found even faster than her mother's.

But oh, the things she could make!

One day prior, I gave her a few beads in every color of the sunset.

And today, she handed me the most beautiful sash, an intricate pattern of red and orange, blue and purple, graceful designs lined with thin stripes of gold. Like fire and water in harmony.

I audibly gasped. I had always designed and tailored pieces of clothing. Nothing made by me had such extraordinary detail.

She told me to keep it.

Grinning at her, I gave her a strip of black fabric, some crystal beads, and my prized possession-pale turquoise thread on a small silver spool.

A smile lit up her face in response.

"I'll bead something to wear with my best outfit remaining to the reaping tomorrow," she grinned, her voice ringing with joy. "Wear yours," she told me. She smiled at me as I got up to leave, but it was thin.

Dreamily grinning at the chance to wear something so beautiful, I began the longer journey home. My only pang was worry at why Pailletea seemed so dismayed.

My smile slowly fell from my face.

Tomorrow was the reaping for the 25th Hunger Games. A Quarter Quell. Things would be especially bad this year.

"It's fine" I reassured myself. "You won't be selected. People vote for the tributes this year,".

I was liked. I was appreciated and admired.

I was untouchable.

...And far too gullible.

Just because I was safe did not mean my loved ones were.

Especially the ones loathed, disrespected, and dismissed.


End file.
